


Night of the Perseids

by StarsAndStitches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1980s, Astronomy, Brotherly Affection, Childhood Memories, Cover Art, Flashbacks, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock Holmes, Mostly Fluff, No Eurus Holmes, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Mycroft Holmes, Redbeard is actually a dog, Stargazing, Stars, Summer Holidays, and there is tea of course, everybody loves to touch Sherlock's hair, jaffa cakes, perseids meteor shower, sussex cottage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-06-24 10:57:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15629271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndStitches/pseuds/StarsAndStitches
Summary: Wherein we witness thetrialstriumphs and tribulations of Mycroft Holmes, aged 11.It's summer, it's the 1980s. The young Holmeses spend a night out star-gazing, because young Sherlock loves the stars like he loves his brother Mycroft.From chapter 5:God, it was dark! Really dark! The rope scraped against Mycroft's forearm and thigh as he moved along it. The rough contact through the fabric of his jeans and jumper acted as an anchor in the pitch-black sea surrounding him, and he found his breathing quietening down a bit. A few feet across the roof, he heard a small voice behind him, “Mycroft...?”“I'm here, Sherlock. It's all fine. I shan't be long.”The night air carried a minute whiny noise that Sherlock would probably later vigorously deny to have made. Mycroft suppressed a sigh, turned and scrambled back to where his brother sat in the open window.“It's dark,” said Sherlock timidly. Being a tough pirate was really hard sometimes, it seemed.





	1. 8:30 pm

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : I only own the plot of this story. The characters and plot of “Sherlock” belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. And humankind is forever indebted to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for conceiving Sherlock Holmes.
> 
> Many many thanks to [TheSoupDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon/pseuds/TheSoupDragon) for beta-reading, suggesting the summary, constant encouraging and many discussions what life was like for a British child in the eighties. And most of all for a wonderful friendship. ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ Du bist ein Schatz!
> 
> I'd love to hear everybody's opinion on this one. Your kudos and comments are highly appreciated! Also, English is not my first language, and there might be some errors – all mine of course – despite my beta-reader's best efforts. Enjoy reading! ❤️

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Mycroft explicates his plans for a perfect night.

__

 

_This year it will be perfect_ , thought Mycroft and felt happy anticipation bubble in his tummy like too much sherbet dip-dab. He had just finished reading a chapter of 'Treasure Island' aloud, and he sighed softly and closed the book, sticking a chubby finger between the pages. “That's it for tonight,” he told his baby brother, who had laid his head in Mycroft's lap, as he liked to do whilst listening to his bedtime story.

“No!” the four-year-old protested, “just one more page!” And he was pouting dramatically, a proven tactic that usually got him what he wanted. Gosh, that boy could sulk for England! At the foot of the bed, the lump of red-brown fur stirred at the louder sound, and Redbeard lifted his head, watching the boys with a befuddled look in his brown puppy eyes.

“No, Sherlock,” Mycroft refused kindly but firmly. At his ripe age of almost twelve years he had to be the sensible one. “It's getting late. And you have to sleep for a few hours now.” He reached for the bookmark on the small bedside table and slid it between the pages. After putting the book aside, he leaned back against the headboard of Sherlock's bed again, running a hand through his brother's riotous curls.”You will want to be well rested to see the falling stars, won't you?”

Sherlock was still pouting but it was merely to put on a show. He snuggled a little bit closer into his big brother's lap. “You'll come and wake me, yes?”

“Don't worry, little brother! I shan't go watching without you. It's going to be splendid, you'll see.” His heart beat sped up a notch. _Oh yes, it will be perfect_. And for Sherlock's benefit he explained, “The sky is clear. And once the moon's set it will be dark enough to see all the meteors.” He moved his free arm in a wide sprawling arc to indicate the enormity of the celestial theatre they were soon going to attend.

“Like fireworks?” the little boy asked excitedly. He loved fireworks.

“A bit,” Mycroft replied never stopping stroking Sherlock's adorable dark hair. “But different. There's no noise. And they are fast, you know. More like fireflies darting across the sky. You'll like it.”

Sherlock hummed contentedly, enjoying the feeling of his brother's fingers massaging his scalp and twirling his curls as much as Mycroft enjoyed doing it. “And these... these... what'd you call 'em?” he asked drowsily.

“Perseids. They are a meteor shower.”

“They come every year?”

“Um-hm, every year,” the elder brother confirmed, “for a fortnight or so. Maximum is around August 12. Which happens to be today.” He smiled down at the tired child in his lap. “I watched them last year. And the year before. We will see lots and lots of them tonight.”

Sherlock looked up at him, and Mycroft saw his own excitement light up in his brother's bright eyes, too. “Lots and lots,” Sherlock repeated dreamily. “And you do wake me? Promise?”

Mycroft smiled. “You mean 'And you _will_ wake me?'” he corrected, and then he assured again, “and don't worry! I will, I promise. The best time for observation will be after midnight. But you have to sleep first so you won't fall asleep during the meteor show.”

“Sleepin' is boring.” Sherlock wiggled a bit in Mycroft's lap as if trying to find an even better cuddling position. “If you forget me I'll never speak to you again. Never,” he added earnestly. “At least for a week.”

“I shan't. I promised.”

Sherlock relaxed a bit at that and closed his eyes. Mycroft's soothing fingers never failed to put him at ease. The sleepy boy turned onto his side, one arm snaked around his big brother's soft waist.

Mycroft ran a hand down the small child's neck, shoulder and arm, patting him softly. There were some practical matters to think of, though. “You've got your warm clothes ready?” he asked quietly.

“Um-hm,” Sherlock hummed sleepily.

“Good. We have to be very quiet. Don't want to wake up Mummy.”

The little boy mock-shuddered. “No, we won't!” he agreed and grinned.

Tiny snoring noises and some rustling came from the other end of the bed. Redbeard was settling into a more comfortable position, too, it seemed.

“You know Mummy doesn't approve of him sleeping in your bed,” the older boy admonished, but without much fervour.

“Pffft! I won't tell her,” Sherlock answered with half-closed eyelids. “Will you?”

“Of course not.” And they both giggled. _And here it is again_ , Mycroft thought wryly, _Rule Number One in the Holmes family: Don't tell Mummy!_

The steady stroking of Sherlock's hair and his brother humming appreciatively calmed his own mind, too. He loved being here under the thatched roof of the cottage. Both his and Sherlock's bedrooms were small and cramped but felt warm and cosy in a way their much bigger rooms back home at Musgrave Hall seldom did. It was an old house that smelled of old things. And of summer. Of flowers and spices and honey and a light summer rain on warm turf. And lemonade and delicious things from the oven. _Maybe it's because we're only here in summer_ , Mycroft mused. He wondered what it would be like here when a November gale hit the little old house with full force.

Mycroft was very fond of old things. Things that could tell you stories from the past. He often imagined that if he were just quiet enough and listened patiently enough, the cottage would trust him and whisper its long-forgotten tales into his ear. Of the people who had lived here. Of scenes it had seen. Good and bad stories, happy and sad. And if he was very attentive he might find out deeper things, too. The mysteries that were engrained in the ancient stone walls, the thick scratched beams and the creaky floorboards. Dark secrets, perhaps. He would love to find out something like that. Something nobody had noticed before. Just by listening to the house, by observing carefully and thinking thoroughly. And then he would keep it to himself, tell nobody about it. Nobody – except Sherlock, maybe.

“Mycroft?” a small voice asked from his lap, bringing him back to the present. Speak of the the devil, he thought with a smile. “Hmm?” he responded.

“Can we stay up all night then? Till morning?” the younger boy asked without opening his eyes.

“If you like,” the older one admitted. Though it seemed highly unlikely that his little brother could hang on for so long.

“Sounds like fun,” Sherlock mumbled and resumed his purring. The silence grew thick and comforting like a well-worn blanket.

Mycroft felt sleep claiming his brother's body and mind. It was time to go. Tenderly he stroked his head a last time and slipped out from underneath him cautiously. In front of the bed he crouched down and looked at Sherlock's almost sleeping face. The duvet was tucked around the little boy's frame, a plush toy was placed into thin arms. Sherlock opened one eye a crack and smiled. The brief sparkle of happiness in his green-blue eyes melted Mycroft's heart. He would do anything in his power to keep it there. Mycroft leaned his forehead against Sherlock's and whispered, “Sleep tight, little bee! See you later!”

“'Night, Mykie,” came a slurred answer.

A last nuzzling of Sherlock's curls, then Mycroft stood and went to leave the room. Yes, tonight they would have excellent conditions. A warm summer night under a clear sky. No clouds, no moon. Brilliant! But the best of all – this year, for the first time, he would have his baby brother at his side. Mycroft smiled contentedly as he left the room, lost in thought. It would be perfect!

 


	2. 9:13 pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Mycroft is busy and Mummy is nosy.

Alone in his tiny room, Mycroft studied the small paperback for what must be the tenth time today alone. '1983 Yearbook of Astronomy', read the title. A fountain of exact knowledge. The tables with long columns of neat figures, the meticulously drawn star charts and diagrams with age-old symbols might appear cryptic to the uninitiated but opened a universe to adepts like himself.

His data was correct: the sun had set while he had been in Sherlock's room. The moon would follow in about an hour and a quarter from now. Everything was going to plan; all he had to do now was finish his preparations and wait.

Restlessly, Mycroft jumped up from his bed where he had been sitting and strolled over to the small window. As he opened it, warm summer evening air scented with honeysuckle flowed in. He pulled the chair up to the window and sat down, crossing his forearms on the window sill and putting his chin down on them comfortably. The scent of roses and hydrangeas lower down the wall made him feel light-headed and giddy. _Promise_ was in the air.

The apparently peaceful evening was crackling with... something... as if nature itself was holding its breath waiting for two boys to emerge. The sky had turned a soft slate-grey, a bit darker yet towards the east. Not a cloud as far as he could see. If he squinted, Mycroft could make out the first stars in the dusk, greeting him like old friends, luring him out. _Hello, Mycroft! We're here. We're waiting for you!_ His heart started beating a little faster. _I'm coming_ , it responded.

Over there, near the western horizon, the clear-cut shape of a four-day-old moon hung in the sky. A buttery-yellow crescent sailing over the rolling hills of rural Sussex. Mycroft's chest swelled with joy and awe, and he had to swallow. He closed his eyes briefly, listening to the chirping of crickets and the distant bleating of sheep. Everything was laid out for a perfect night, shivering with anticipation like he was.

The sound of Mummy's laughter drifted up from the open windows of the living room below. The boy sighed loudly. No more time for pointless reveries now. He had still some preparations to make.

Grabbing his rucksack from underneath his bed, he looked over the items he had arranged on his small desk, taking inventory. Two torches, astronomical yearbook, binoculars. _Bugger!_ He'd almost forgotten the insect repellent. He grabbed it hurriedly and put it next to the other items. A rolled-up sleeping bag lay on his bed. And a jumper in a non-descript fawn colour, worn into a comfortable Mycroftesque shape and with leather-patches at the elbows. Not the most fashionable piece of clothing, surely, but it would serve its purpose to save him from catching a cold.

Mycroft grabbed a blanket from his bed, folded it neatly and stuffed it into the rucksack. Together with the sleeping bag it would keep the two of them warm during their stargazing adventure. The smaller items followed, and his jumper went in last. Good. Everything present and accounted for, except provisions. He hesitated a moment. Would it be too early to sneak down to the kitchen to get something to bite and drink? No, he decided, it was about time. His parents were probably relaxing in the living room so he might manage to go about his plans unnoticed.

As he was about to leave the room, Mycroft caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror at the inside of the door. He grimaced. The jumper would not do much damage to his appearance anyway, he thought resignedly. The round-faced red-haired boy who stared back at him, in a pair of baggy jeans (but still two inches short at the legs) and a loose untucked t-shirt (to hide his rounded belly) would not give anyone cause to smile fondly at his appearance. The worst of it were the freckles, though. Meadows of freckles, on his face, his neck, his arms. Absolutely dreadful! And also on pretty much the rest of his body, as he knew only too well. He was well aware that he wasn't a joy to behold.

Being of a slim build with gracious, smooth sliding movements, he might have been on the slender side if it weren't for the fact that every cake and every ice-cream he ate insisted on making itself known in the chubby outline of his body. That his legs and arms had grown a couple of inches recently didn't help much either, leaving him feeling unbalanced and clumsy.

 _It's so unfair,_ Mycroft thought resentfully. Sherlock never seemed uneasy in _his_ skin. He would run around, an inexhaustible ball of energy, or lounge gracefully like a spoiled cat… If Mycroft tried to do these things, he all too soon became a panting, exhausted heap, or, while attempting to lounge gracefully, apparently resembled ‘a sack of potatoes.’ _And thank you, Mother, for that description of me_ , he thought, sulkily… _so_ not fair! Sherlock easily grabbed all the attention, with his exuberant temperament and his wild unruly hair. The lumpy older brother with his often dour expression seemed always in his shadow. Even the one feature Mycroft actually liked about himself – his piercing blue-grey eyes – was easily outclassed by his little brother's quicksilver ones. It was more than unfair! Still, at least he was the smarter one.

Mycroft smoothed back that ginger curl that stubbornly fell down onto his forehead, and with a half-hearted grin towards his reflection he left the room. He listened for a second for noises from the room next door. Nothing, good. Sherlock and Redbeard were obviously sound asleep. He sidled down the stairs light-footedly – mind the creaking fourth step – and into the kitchen. The muted mumble of the television from the living room told Mycroft that his parents were not very likely to take any notice of him.

Quickly, he put the kettle on and began looking for snacks. The half-eaten cherry tart on the kitchen worktop – the remains of their dessert – was sorely tempting. Too impractical, he decided with a wistful sigh. A thorough search through the cupboard produced a package of Jaffa Cakes and a few Rich Tea biscuits in a tin, his favourites. Mycroft grinned. _Not bad!_ Sherlock would like them. Alas, no cherry tart though.

The water boiled and Mycroft hurried to make the tea. Standing on tiptoes, he could just reach the thermos flask on the top shelf and he pulled it down. He put a couple of tea bags into it and poured the hot water. A minute or two ticked by on the clock at the kitchen wall.

“Hey, Myke!” his mother's cheery voice sounded from behind him, surprised, “you still up?”

Mycroft whirled, startled. “Erm... yes, Mummy.” Obviously.

She eyed him curiously, with a teasing smile. “What are doing you here, dear? On the hunt for a little extra?”

He blushed. “No. I'm... just... just making tea.” And he slid half a step sideways to block her view of the biscuits.

Mummy tilted her head. “This late? Whatever for?”

 _Dear Lord_ , Mycroft thought frantically, _how do I get her out of here quickly?_ “Studying,” he mumbled, “Going to learn some more... erm... Spanish vocab.” Mummy was always pleased to hear about studying.

Not tonight, though. “Oh, darling!” Her expression softened. “You shouldn't do that. It's your holidays, Mykie.” She smiled affectionately. “You should do something fun.”

“I do, Mummy,” he said firmly, “studying is fun for me.” That much at least was true. The kitchen clock told him that the tea had brewed long enough. He turned and fished out the tea bags, careful to hide the Jaffa Cakes. _Can she please leave? Now,_ please _?_

“Still,” his mother objected, “it doesn't seem right.” A pondering pause. “Listen, there's a documentary coming up on television. About some excavations on Crete. Or was it Turkey? Wouldn't that interest you?” she asked. “You can bring your tea if you like!”

 _Any other day but not tonight._ “No thanks. I'd rather...” He shrugged and screwed the thermos closed.

Mummy stepped closer. “As you please, my little bookworm.” And she ruffled his hair. Ugh! “But don't stay up too long! You'll need your beauty sleep, mind you.” She placed a soft hand on his shoulder and pressed a light kiss onto his hair.

Mycroft closed his eyes and prayed silently for patience. “I shan't,” he managed.

Mummy smiled again. “And leave that tart alone,” she continued with a conspirational wink, “your brother would be very cross with you if you ate it all. And so would I.” She patted his cheek patronisingly. “Good night, Mykie!”

 _It's Mycroft!_ “'Night, Mummy,” the boy replied as his mother sailed out of the kitchen. With a quiet sigh of relief he sagged a bit against the worktop. _Well,... that was arduous._

When Mycroft was back in his room with the full thermos and the biscuits, he looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Gone half past nine. Not long now. The provisions were carefully stowed into the rucksack, the sleeping bag was attached to it. Finished.

Mycroft left out a deep sigh. He was ready, ready as he ever could be for his stargazing night. Together with Sherlock it would be more like an adventure and less like meticulous observations. A mild evening breeze from the open window brushed his face and tugged gently at his hair. He grinned happily. Perfect.

 _Just one more check on the rope_. Three quick steps to the window. Night had advanced, and the moon was well on its way towards the west. The garden shed that would be their observatory platform was barely visible in the twilight. Mycroft could hardly contain his excitement when he imagined himself and his brother on the flat roof of the shed under the dome of stars.

The gap between the cottage and the shed was spanned by another roof, directly beneath his window. Just a few beams and boards actually, kind of a covered gateway to the garden. It was strong enough to carry the weight of two boys crawling over to the shed roof. Mycroft had tested it before, because that was what they were going to do. Of course, they could sneak out of the back door, through the garden and ascend the shed roof from the ground. But this way it would be much more thrilling. Sherlock would be delighted, climbing out of a window and across a roof in the dark was right up his alley.

Some precautions were in order, though. So Mycroft had tied a rope from the drainpipe next to his window across the board roof to the shed this morning. He leaned out of the window and reached for the rope. The rough hemp felt warm in his hand having lain in the summer sun all day. Warm and reassuring. He fumbled for the knot and gave the rope a fierce tug. The knot held. Alright then, he thought, reassured, that sturdy rope would guide them safely to their vantage point.

Satisfied with his work, Mycroft returned to his bed and lay down, fully dressed. He would rest now until it was time for their adventure to begin. The alarm clock was set at two hours ahead, just in case, and he slipped it under his pillow. Folding his hands underneath his head he let his eyes fall shut. Right, everything was set up and under his control. Nothing would stop them now from having a truly brilliant night. _The most brilliant night_ , he thought dreamily, _with stars and meteors... and Sherlock_. A lazy smile crept on his face, and he drifted off, remembering...


	3. Morning of the same day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Mycroft ties a rope, Sherlock explores number theory and Daddy talks about serious matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first 'flashback' chapter, thus justifying the 'Non-linear Narrative' tag.

The clear sky promised another sunny day at their holiday cottage. It had been dry for a week now, and the weather seemed to be holding.

Mycroft listened carefully as he sat on the sill of his open window, one knee pulled up and the other leg dangling outside, assessing the situation. Daddy had begun pottering about in the garden, and Mummy and Sherlock were about to leave to go shopping. Nobody was going to miss him for an hour at least – very good.

The rope felt strong and firm as he let it run through his hands. Reliable. A safeguard for the night-time adventure he had planned. Fortunately, there was no shortage of good rope in a place terrorised by the fearsome pirate captain Sherlock.

Cautiously, he climbed out of the window and lowered himself onto the board roof beneath it, the length of the rope wrapped around his torso. First, Mycroft wound the free end of the rope around the drainpipe next to him. A solid double knot, pulled extra tight with all his strength. He couldn't risk it coming loose at night.

Voices from below stopped him short. He quickly lay down flat on his stomach, eager to stay out of sight. Mummy and Sherlock were just stepping out of the front door, joined by a bouncing and yapping puppy. Mycroft peered surreptitiously over the edge of the roof and watched them getting ready to go out.

“You know about ever-even numbers, Mummy?” enquired Sherlock.

“And what would they be?” their mother asked in return, picking up her shopping basket at the door. Mycroft could hear the amused smile in her voice. _Naturally,_ he thought with a pang of resentment, _Sherlock, the favourite child._ When _Mycroft_ came up with something, he could not hope for more than an approving nod of expectations fulfilled, of not having disappointed anyone. Being an exceedingly smart child from the outset had raised the bar, and nobody was particularly surprised or delighted about his flashes of inspiration anymore.

Meanwhile, in the front garden below, Sherlock had stopped and put on a hard-thinking frown, uncertain whether his mother was teasing him or not. “You told me even numbers can be cut in halves,” he began, slowly and earnestly.

“Yes, that's the definition,” Mummy agreed, now responding to his serious tone, and she stopped walking as well. “A number is called even if it can be divided by two without any remainder.”

“Um-hm,” the little boy nodded, “Mycroft said so, too.” As if he were the ultimate authority. “But, you see, with some numbers... you can cut them in halves, and then again, and then again. _Ever-even_ numbers.”

“Oh!” Mummy looked at her youngest with delight, “Yes! Can you give me an example, darling?”

“Sixty-four,” Sherlock replied at once. “Half of it is thirty-two. Half of it is sixteen. Half of it is eight. Then four, then two, then one. Ever-even number. It's obvious,” he stated, concluding his explanation.

Mummy hunkered down in front of him, set down her basket and gripped his upper arms. “What a clever boy you are, Sherlock!” She ruffled his dark curly hair. “I'm so proud of you! From one mathematician to another, there's another name for your ever-even numbers. We call them powers of two.”

“Stupid name,” the boy declared. “Mine is much better, clearly.”

Mummy laughed brightly. “You're right, sweetheart. 'Ever-even numbers' sounds much more intriguing.” She straightened up and took his hand, winding Redbeard’s lead around her other wrist and getting a firm grip on it before picking up her basket again. “Let's play a game while we walk down to Mrs. Gordon's, shall we? I'll give you a number and you tell me if it's ever-even. Alright?”

Sherlock beamed, and they walked down the garden path and set off towards the grocer's – much to Redbeard's delight, who would have run enthusiastic circles around them if it weren't for the lead. But alas, since the thrice-blasted Tadpole Soup Incident their mother insisted on him being on the lead when they went down to the village.

“So,” Mummy was saying just before the three of them were out of earshot, “what do you think of 1024? Ever-even or not? And you need to prove it!”

When the coast was clear, Mycroft resumed his task. He crawled across the boards on all fours, wound the rope around one of the beams with a simple overhand knot and checked the tension. Not too tight, not too slack. Onwards to the roof of the garden shed, the prospective observation site for tonight. There was an old kiln at the side of the shed, unused for ages, but the chimney was still there. The perfect anchor for the other end of the rope. He tied it around the chimney and secured it with a resolute double knot. Done!

The bricks of the chimney were already warmed by the morning sun, rough and earthy beneath his hands. _Has the old kiln stories to tell, too?_ Mycroft wondered briefly. With a long contented sigh, he leaned back against the chimney, pulled up his knees and let the sun-baked brickwork warm his back. He felt oddly detached, sitting here on the roof, with the house, the garden and everything else sprawled out below him. He was the king of this little world, surveying his realm, and nobody suspected him there. Mycroft the First – no, Mycroft the Only One. The unseen ruler, the invisible power. He was a good benevolent ruler, certainly, who cared for his kingdom and saw that everybody and everything within it would thrive. With the exception of Phil Gordon, of course.

Mycroft closed his eyes and felt the sun on his face as well as the warm bricks against his back. It was a very pleasant sensation. The smells and sounds of a splendid summer morning surrounded him. He heard his father filling the large zinc watering can from the water butt while humming quietly out of key. A bird was singing somewhere to his right. _Starling, sitting in the apple tree,_ he deduced instantly without thinking. It felt good to be here. And in a little more than twelve hours this sunny roof would turn into an astronomical observatory for Sherlock and himself. A happy smile spread on his face, everything was fine.

“Hey, Myke!”

Mycroft's eyes flew open. _Drat! Spotted!_

Down below in the garden, his father was standing with his large straw hat pushed back on his head, squinting up at him. “Didn't notice you up there. Have you been there long?”

“A while...” the boy allowed, reluctant to reveal his sunny little hideout.

“Do you have a sun hat with you?” Daddy asked. “You should put it on then, or otherwise you better get down here. Your mother will have my hide if I let you stay out in the sun without it for long.”

Mycroft heaved a put-upon sigh. Of course he hadn't brought a hat. Who would do that just for tying a rope? He slid to the edge of the roof and climbed down, using the lid of the water butt as a stepping stone.

Daddy grinned apologetically. “You know a fresh sunburn will get both of us in trouble.” He took off his straw hat and scratched his head, dishevelling his auburn hair which clung in sweaty curls to his forehead. “I'm a bit in a mood for a break myself,” he admitted, “what do you think about some lemonade in the shade?”

“Sounds good,” Mycroft replied less than enthusiastically.

“Excellent!” Daddy turned and walked cheerfully back to the house. Mycroft followed at a more leisurely pace to where a big parasol shaded a small terrace with a table and a few chairs. He slumped onto one of them and stretched his legs.

Daddy returned carrying a tray with a jug, two glasses and a tube of sun cream. “Here!” he said, tossing the tube at Mycroft, “Put this on! Damage control.” The boy complied, whilst his father filled their glasses.

“Thank you, Daddy.” Mycroft wiped his cream-smeared hands on his handkerchief and took the first sip.

“Sorry for the heirloom, son!” his father grinned at him as he took a seat himself.

“What do you mean?”

“The sensitive skin. Freckles. Red hair.” Daddy sighed. “I know it can be a nuisance at times. I rather detested it myself in my younger days.” He stretched his long legs, too, mimicking his son's pose. “But odds are quite good that you'll end up as tall as I. That's something at least.” He took a thirsty swig.

 _Marvellous,_ Mycroft thought sarcastically, _talking about looks. Just the right topic to cheer me up!_ And he cast a furtive glance at his father's bare forearms, slightly tanned and just as freckly as his own. Genetics could be such a pain in the ... derrière, sometimes. “Your hair is darker than mine,” he remarked at last.

Daddy gave a snort. “Yes. But when I was your age, Myke, it was very much like yours now. It darkened when I was about fourteen or fifteen.” He winked at his son. “So let's not give up hope just yet!” After another mouthful of lemonade he added, “And then I met your mother. Who liked me the way I was, red hair and freckles and all. As I'm sure there is somebody in your future who will like you the way you are.” He put his large hand on Mycroft's forearm, their freckles uniting happily.

“Red hair and freckles and all,” Mycroft echoed softly and swallowed. _Hardly a catch._

For a long time, neither father nor son uttered a word. They sat in companionable silence, idly sipping on their drinks, watching insects buzzing about the bushes and listening to the sounds of summer. It was quite nice, Mycroft realised, surprised. When was the last time they had shared a moment like this? he mused idly. Just he and Daddy, next to each other, doing basically nothing.

And when would they find time to do this sort of thing? They didn't even see each other that much, with Daddy being away in London for his work as solicitor with the Crown Prosecution Service most of the time and only coming home at weekends. And while Mycroft looked forward to those, they always seemed to fly by with a thousand more pressing issues taking precedence; Mummy's health, the estate, Mycroft's progress in his studies and Sherlock, who was never too shy to take centre stage in the Holmes family.

Everyone at Musgrave vied for Daddy's attention, and Mycroft (reticent, shy, earnest Mycroft), was not one to speak his heart and mind straightaway on Friday evenings. And by the time he felt relaxed enough to open up and the time seemed right, it was Sunday night already and Daddy was getting ready to leave for London again.

When they did spend time together, it was mostly his father showing him account books in the study, explaining financial transactions and all the necessary operations. From time to time Mycroft was allowed to listen in when his father discussed administrative and economical decisions, and matters regarding the Holmes fortune and estate with the staff or his bank manager. Not every conversation partner was at ease with his presence, though. Bank manager Mr. Rawleigh-Blythe in particular, with his offish and stolid manner, seemed to be more than a bit unnerved by the quiet observant boy in the background. (Which secretly pleased Mycroft, to no small degree.)

However, these were lessons and essential grooming for the heir, the next in line. Mycroft had to learn the ropes sometime. Although it wasn't spoken aloud, the expectation hung in the air like old smoke – that he would be prepared to take on the mantle of Mr. Holmes of Musgrave Hall at some point in the future.

And as much as Mycroft liked to be in the picture about these matters and listened attentively, he sometimes found himself wishing for more private moments with his father. A quiet talk and maybe a game of chess or Operation. Or strolling around the grounds together and not talking at all, like they were doing now, just enjoying each other's company.

A heavy sigh escaped Mycroft's chest inadvertently halfway through his second glass of lemonade.

His father's thoughts seemed to have gone down a similar path. “Mycroft...” he began in a thick voice.

Mycroft looked over at him, warily.

Daddy scratched his head again. “It's probably all not very fair to you, is it?” His blue-grey eyes searched Mycroft's. The boy returned his gaze, but remained silent. “I'm aware we are imposing a lot of... adult matters on you...” his father continued. “I tend to forget how young you are... You should be able to do more fun things, enjoy your childhood... maybe meet other children your age more... I'm sorry, son.”

Mycroft shrugged diffidently. What could he possibly say to that?

“Your mother, well... she's not always an easy person to be around, I know.” Daddy ran a hand through his hair, clearly feeling uncomfortable. “Particularly when she's... affected by her... indispositions.” He looked awkwardly at his son. “She's never been quite well since... well...”

… _since Sherlock was born,_ Mycroft's mind filled in. _It's alright, Daddy. No need to apologise._

The images of that January night were most vivid in his perfect memory. He and Daddy and Uncle Rudy in a bleak, too bright waiting area of a hospital, anxious for any news from the operating theatre. Daddy had been pacing frantically, twitching with the need for a cigarette and raking his hands through his hair. Mycroft himself, an overtired and confused seven-year-old with a stone in his stomach, had snuggled against Uncle Rudy's side, who had put his arm around Mycroft's shoulders and spoken to him in a hushed tone, as he explained the terms 'premature' and 'emergency caesarean'.

And after what had felt like hours, an exhausted-looking nurse had come in with the news: “Mother and child are now out of immediate danger. Congratulations, Mr. Holmes, it's a boy!” Mycroft's father had hugged first his son, then his brother-in-law, both very fiercely. Mycroft had never seen him this close to weeping. Allistair Siger Roderick Holmes, who was usually so composed in public. “It's a miracle,” he had mumbled again and again, “our precious little miracle.”

Mycroft and his father had not spoken about it afterwards, but they both realised it wouldn't have taken much for them to have become a family of only two the following morning.

He remembered it all too well. “So what do you think, Mycroft?” Daddy had asked when they had been in the premature ward, at the cot labelled 'Boy Holmes'. Whilst Mycroft had been torn between curious and sceptical, his father had been holding the 'little miracle', a fond smile illuminating his features, one long finger gently stroking the cheek of the newborn boy, not even one day old yet. “Is he William Sherlock or Sherlock William? Your mother and I can't decide, actually. We like both.” He had looked round to his son – his _elder_ son now – who had been standing beside him. “What does he look like to _you_?”

To Mycroft, the tiny red-faced … _someone_... mainly had looked impossibly fragile in his father's large hands. Mycroft had chewed on his lip, trying to find an answer in the crumpled little face. _Baby brother. Who are you? Sherlock? Or William?_ He had been leaning towards 'Sherlock', for no apparent reason.

His father had turned back to the baby. “Too bad 'Miracle' is not a boy's name,” he had joked dispelling the thoughtful mood and then asked the same questions that had been on Mycroft's mind. “Sherlock? William?” he had murmured softly, carefully trying out the names.

A young nurse had swept into the room to adjust some settings on the monitoring machines. “Oh, you're naming the baby after Dr. Hennessy?” she had trilled, clearly delighted, having caught the last words. “That's so wonderful, sir. He'll be very flattered.”

“Pardon?” Allistair Holmes had replied, looking confused, “Dr. Hennessy? Flattered?”

The nurse had blushed rapidly. “Yes. Bill Hennessy. He's the surgeon who... last night... he delivered your... your little miracle.” She had swallowed. “I'm sorry, sir, I thought... I heard you saying 'William' and I thought... you were considering it as a name...”

“We are,” Mycroft's father had confirmed, “but I didn't know it was Dr. Hennessy's Christian name...”

“Yes, it is. Bill. Bill Hennessy. Well, William, of course, not Bill.” She had tucked a strand of hair back into her cap. “He's such an amazing doctor.” The blush had intensified. “Sorry I didn't mean to... But if people appreciate... What a lovely thing to do.”

Mycroft and his father had exchanged a glance. “That settles it then. 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes' it is.”

A sudden swishing movement in the corner of his eye startled Mycroft, and his mind was abruptly pulled back to the summer garden and the lemonade. It was his father shooing away a brash wasp keen to win some of the sweet beverage for itself. “Go on,” he told it, “off you pop!” Mycroft quickly secured his own drink.

Daddy wasn't finished with his thoughtful musings, though. “And little Will... no nanny we hire seems capable of getting along with him, do they? He's a quite a handful as they say.”

Will. William. No one but his father used Sherlock's official first name. Not even Jenkins, their driver, who was very old-fashioned and had only recently started to call the elder son 'Master Mycroft'. But Daddy did so, every now and then, to honour the man who had helped to bring the little miracle into this world.

“It's a good thing you two are so close,” Mycroft's father continued, still a little lost in his own head. “Don't know what we would do without you, son.”

Mycroft swallowed. “It's no bother, Daddy, really,” he said at last.

He remembered clearly the string of nannies who had tried and failed to see to his baby brother's needs beyond the most basic level. Sooner or later, each of them had surrendered in the face of a fretful infant, and later, a toddler – who was often agitated, bored or afraid and refused to sleep. Only the arms and the voice of his big brother could soothe him, and on these occasions Sherlock would not let go of Mycroft. Not that Mycroft minded, though. He particularly loved bathing baby Sherlock, taking pride in being in charge of such an important task, and later joining him when he played with his toy ships in the tub, both of them soaking wet, covered in bubble bath foam and laughing merrily. Just as readily, Mycroft had spent long hours cuddling a coughing, whimpering toddler and making sure he would take his medicine on time, when Mummy had been exhausted after another sleepless night and the current nanny-of-the-season had been flat out rejected.

And when his brother had outgrown his nappies, the need for a nanny had become less and less essential. Who would need one with big brother Mycroft around?

His father reached out a hand and patted him on the shoulder, bringing him back to the present once more. “You're a good boy, Mycroft,” he said softly. And he gave Mycroft's shoulder a brief encouraging squeeze. “And we shall take care of our family together, shan't we? You and I? Albeit difficult at times.”

The boy nodded, a thick lump constricting his throat. He wasn't sure if being 'a good boy' was something he aspired to.

Allistair Holmes sighed and withdrew his hand after a final pat. Silence fell again. It had a heavier tone to it now, the simple pleasures of the sunny morning overcast with brooding thoughts, the burden of being a Holmes. Mycroft pondered whether he should fish for a lighter subject of conversation or rather excuse himself and retreat to his room in order to find himself something to read.

But before he made up his mind about that, his father piped up again, steering to shallower waters. “Listen, Myke,” he began, “your mother suggested we take a trip to the seaside again, some day next week. What do you think?”

Mycroft shrugged non-committally. “Fine,” he mumbled.

 _Seaside,_ that meant _people,_ he knew only too well from previous outings. Lots of people. And lots of sand that crept in everywhere. If they were careful, however, and stuck to a less crowded area, it might be bearable. Pleasurable, even. They would bring a picnic basket and a parasol and some beach mats, looking like any other family and not like the Holmeses of Musgrave Hall for once. Daddy liked such 'incognito' occasions, he knew. 

Mycroft would lie reading on the beach all day. Sherlock would romp through the shallow water with his beloved pirate hat, hunting for treasures in the surf. Or Daddy would try to teach him how to swim again, if the little whirlwind was in the mood for taking lessons. Mummy would probably be sunbathing or reading a recent issue of the 'Journal of the London Mathematical Society' hidden in a women's magazine so as to not provoke perturbed looks from nosy people nearby. Every now and then she would call out to Daddy not to let Sherlock get in too deep, or nag her eldest about 'doing something fun'. Which he would ignore generously, of course.

If he got bored with reading, Mycroft could always entertain himself by deducing the ordinary people around them: quarrelling families, lovers sneaking off to some secret place for snogging, gossiping elderly ladies, the inevitable gang of raucous teenagers. An exercise all the more challenging the less people wore. Clothing was telltale, clothing was power, much more revealing than most people realised.

Finally, Mummy would feel the urge for some of her own kind of fun, and Daddy and Mycroft would take turns to carry a blissfully exhausted four-year-old around piggy-back. They would browse through some shops, stroll along the pier, and very likely the day would end with a heap of chips for Sherlock and some serious ice-cream for himself. Not the worst way to spend a day, indeed.

“Actually... that sounds great, Daddy,” Mycroft amended and was rewarded with a pleased smile from his father. “I'm looking forward to it,” he added.

Daddy clapped his hands. “Jolly good!” He laced his hands together behind his head and flashed his son a mischievous grin. “There are quite a few ripe cherries over there.” He jerked his chin towards the cherry tree which was covered by an ugly but unfortunately indispensable fine net. “If you help me pick them, we might or might not have enough to make a cherry tart for dessert.”

Mycroft returned the grin. “Where's the ladder?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The “ever-even numbers” were actually brought up by my daughter when she was about the age Sherlock is here. I thought it would be nice to include them. ;)


	4. 11:50 pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the boys scurry around and the fun commences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to [eliza_doolittlethings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eliza_doolittlethings). A big thank you for all your lovely comments! <3

The alarm clock stirred Mycroft from his reverie, and he sat up a little groggily. Rubbing his eyes, he gathered his thoughts. As soon as realisation hit him, a shining bubble of joy rose inside his chest like a glorious sunrise. _Now! At last!_

Armed with one of the torches, he went to wake his brother. Sherlock's room was dark and warm, boy and dog both fast asleep. Mycroft hurried over to the bed. “Sherlock!” he whispered urgently. Carefully he touched the sleeping child's shoulder and shook him gently. “Hey, wake up, sleepyhead!” And a little louder than before, “Sherlock, it's time.”

“Hmmmmph...” mumbled Sherlock, slowly and drowsily, “... My…?” Whilst he was fighting his way to consciousness, Mycroft stroked his shoulder and back encouragingly.

“Yes, it's me. Wake up, little brother! Come on, we're going to see the falling stars!”

A happy grin bloomed on Sherlock's face, his eyes opened, agleam with joy. He might have let out a cheer, hadn't Mycroft hurriedly put his hand over the younger boy's mouth. “Shhhh! Quiet!” he hushed him. “Don't wake Redbeard!” _Or worse, Mummy._

Indeed, the Irish setter twitched and made some soft noises before drifting back to doggie dreamland again.

Sherlock sat up and rubbed his eyes with his fists. He couldn't get rid of the tendrils of sleep soon enough.

“Are you ready for an adventure?” Mycroft asked, to which Sherlock nodded mutely.

“Alright then, brother dear,” the older boy instructed in a hushed voice, “loo first, then we go to my room and dress for outside.”

Sherlock reached his arms out towards Mycroft in a wordless demand to be carried. A well-practised manoeuvre between them since Sherlock had been able to lift his arms. Mycroft sighed indulgently and scooped up his little brother. “Oh, come on then. Quiet.” Sherlock rested his head in the crook of his big brother's neck, and Mycroft could feel him smile happily against his skin. He didn't even mind the bit of drool he felt trickling down the neckline of his t-shirt.

A few minutes later in Mycroft's room, Sherlock had stripped off his pyjamas and struggled into his t-shirt. Mycroft sifted through the clothes they had brought and frowned. “No socks? No shoes?” he asked, slightly exasperated.

“Forgot,” Sherlock mumbled, pulling down the t-shirt.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. _Typical!_ His brother ran around bare-footed so often that socks and shoes were not on his list of summer attire. “Well, we have to go and get them. You can't go outside without.” Sceptical that his brother would be stealthy enough, Mycroft assigned himself to the task. “I shall go. You go on dressing. Do you recall where you left your trainers?”

“Er... under the bed... maybe?”

Mycroft moaned theatrically, grabbed the torch and sneaked off to the room next door for the second time within a quarter of an hour. _Dammit, Sherlock!_ He couldn't help the crushing feeling that everything was starting to go wrong, despite all his careful planning. _If he ruins this, it will be the last time I ever bring him along. Brother or not._

Fortunately his sneaking skills were second to none so that Redbeard did not wake, and the boy quickly found the trainers – actually under the bed – and snatched the first two socks he could locate – probably _not_ a pair.

Back in his room again, Mycroft found his baby brother bouncing excitedly on the bed.

“Sherlock!” he hissed, getting seriously annoyed, “are you mad?! You're going to wake everybody. Quiet, I said!” The last thing he needed was Mummy turning up and enquiring what her darling boys were up to in the middle of the night. “And for goodness sake, Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on!”

The curly-haired boy realised he had gone too far and after one last defiant bounce, settled down and compliantly put on his socks while Mycroft took a few deliberate breaths to calm down. _All will go well. No need to worry._

One leg into his jeans, Sherlock asked, “Can't we take Redbeard with us?”

“No!” snapped Mycroft and ran a hand through his hair.

“Pleeease, Mykie! He'll be quiet. I promise.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

Mycroft huffed. “Dogs are not into stargazing.” Keeping an eye on Sherlock would be quite enough, thank you very much. “You know what senses dogs use most?”

“Smell and sound,” Sherlock answered promptly and shoved his other leg into the jeans.

“Exactly. He can't see stars, falling or not. Besides, he wouldn't like to be on his lead on the roof.”

“On the roof?” Sherlock jerked his head up, gazing at his brother wide-eyed. “We're going onto a _roof_?”

“Yes, brother mine.” Mycroft's mood lightened. “We'll clamber over to the garden shed. Its roof will be our observatory for tonight.” And he smiled, pleased with his surprise gone well.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Sherlock exclaimed and dashed to the still open window. “Oh yeah!” He hopped up and down with excitement. “Can we go _now_ , Mycroft?”

“As soon as you've finished dressing and we've put on insect repellent. And keep it down, will you?”

Sherlock fumbled with the zip and button of his jeans, exhilarated and fidgety. Mycroft picked him up, sat down on his desk chair with the squirming little boy in his lap and helped him to get his shoes on. Tying shoe laces on his own was a cumbersome task for him at the best of times and would be downright impossible now. “Stop fidgeting!”

With his free hand, Mycroft reached into the rucksack and retrieved the bottle of insect repellent. “Here. We need to put this on face and arms. Unless you want to be covered in mosquito bites.”

Sherlock pulled his 'Must I?' face but allowed his older brother to apply the smelly liquid. Mycroft tended to his own face and arms, and Sherlock crumpled his face in disgust at the smell. “Ugh! You stink like... cat wee-wee.”

“You're no bunch of roses either,” Mycroft responded in an equanimous tone. Their eyes met and suddenly both started to chortle. Mycroft found he couldn't be angry with his little brother any more.

Sherlock had wrapped a skinny arm around his brother's neck and broke into an infectious giggle.

 _Yes, we're doing it! We're actually doing it!_ Mycroft thought happily and he laughed, too, carefree and uninhibited. A small hand touched his mouth. “Shhh! Quiet,” said Sherlock between giggles with an impish twinkle in his eyes, “now _you'll_ going to wake Mummy.”

Mycroft chuckled one more time. “Right. Ready to go?” And as the little boy nodded and slipped down from his lap, he continued, “good. Jumpers on, and off we go.”

While the older boy donned his fawn-coloured fashion crime, Sherlock put on his own jumper, a navy turtleneck that had once been Mycroft's (“It brings out your eyes so favourably, darling,” Mummy had gushed then) and was still too large for the four-year-old. The cuffs of the sleeves fell over his hands, and Mycroft had to help him roll them up.

And then they were at the window. Mycroft had put the rucksack on his back and switched off the light while Sherlock had used the chair to get onto the window sill, dangling his feet outside. When his big brother joined him there, slipping an arm around his waist protectively, both shared a glance and grinned at each other. The torch in Mycroft's hand was their only light source now, a small bright bubble in the surrounding ocean of darkness. Mycroft took a deep breath.

 _On the threshold between two kinds of darkness_ , he thought fleetingly, strangely poised between awe and trepidation. The darkened room and the house at their back was a warm cave, cosy and safe, whereas the night ahead of them was an open void, boundless and just a little bit scary. And so enticing, an invitation impossible to resist. Particularly when you feel your brother's warm body beside you, a brother who was as eager as you to brave together whatever the night might have in store.

Sherlock wriggled impatiently, and when Mycroft looked at him he saw anticipation and joy whirl in his incredible eyes. And more, amazement and blatant admiration. “Oh,” the little boy uttered, wide-eyed and a little breathless, looking up at the sky. Mycroft smiled knowingly. _Yes, the universe is ours, brother dear. Let's get out there and seize it!_


	5. 12:17 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein both brothers boldly brave blackness, beauty, boards – and (a little bit of) blood.

A quarter past midnight, two brothers were sitting on the sill of an open window. Two small figures huddled together, facing the enormous night, with a single torch between them lighting their excited faces. Mycroft could hear the siren's song of the starry night calling at them, and he knew his baby brother felt the same, fidgeting with excited energy as he was. One more deep breath, and off they went!

Mycroft shoved the torch into Sherlock's hands and fished for the rope he had tied as a safety line in the bright light of the previous morning.

“Look! This rope here, it runs all the way to the garden shed. We just need to follow it.” And he bent down and picked up a shorter length of rope from under the sill. “And this one will go around your belly. Lest you fall down. Shine the light over here, Sherlock!”

“A lead?” Sherlock asked indignantly but directed the torch onto his brother's hands nevertheless.

“A safety line.” Mycroft stated firmly and deftly attached one end of the thin rope to the thicker one with a slip-knot and tied the other end around Sherlock's waist. “And that's not negotiable. This knot can glide along the big rope easily, see? So you can move with it and you won't go astray.”

Sherlock humphed a bit. Him, the infamous scourge of the seven seas, and going astray? Ridiculous.

Mycroft hopped down onto the board roof and continued with his instructions. “I shall go over to the roof of the shed first with the rucksack. You'll stay here keeping this torch. I shall leave the other torch there, as a beacon, then I'll come back and get you. Okay?” As Sherlock nodded his assent, Mycroft gave him a pat on the shoulder and a reassuring smile. He crouched down and started to crawl away over the roof.

God, it was dark! Really dark! The rope scraped against Mycroft's forearm and thigh as he moved along it. The rough contact through the fabric of his jeans and jumper acted as an anchor in the pitch-black sea surrounding him, and he found his breathing quietening down a bit. A few feet across the roof, he heard a small voice behind him, “Mycroft...?”

“I'm here, Sherlock. It's all fine. I shan't be long.”

The night air carried a minute whiny noise that Sherlock would probably later vigorously deny to have made. Mycroft suppressed a sigh, turned and scrambled back to where his brother sat in the open window.

“It's dark,” said Sherlock timidly. Being a tough pirate was really hard sometimes, it seemed.

Mycroft stroked his arm. “I know, Sherlock. But it will get better once our eyes have adapted to it. Don't be afraid!”

“'M not afraid.”

“Of course not.” Mycroft put on his best big-brother-smile. “You can help me, though. If you shine the light ahead of me... where I'm going... I'll be over there quickly and turn on our beacon. And back to you in no time. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure!” Sherlock answered more confidently as if he'd never shown a sign of trepidation and directed the beam as told.

“Yes, exactly like that. Excellent, Sherlock!”

Following the rope and guided by the wavering cone of light, Mycroft scrambled over the roof once again. He had almost reached the shed when a sudden sharp prick of pain made him wince. _Bugger!_ His palm had caught a splinter. Of course, it was too dark to pull it out right now. And he didn't want to worry Sherlock either. So determinedly steeling himself against the discomfort in his hand, Mycroft urged himself forward, valiantly swallowing any traitorous sound. He tried to hurry, just a few more hobbled movements, and he was at the chimney. _Phew. Phase one completed._

As quickly as he could manage, he took off the rucksack, pulled out the second torch and switched it on. The sudden flash of light would signify to his brother that all was well and under control. He even waggled the torch a bit to let Sherlock know he had reached the destination in good shape (more or less), and was relieved to see that his brother responded in kind.

Before he could return, though, Mycroft had to take a look at his splinter. He laid the torch down and held his left hand in the pool of light. There was a streak of blood at the ball of his left thumb where the sharp piece of wood had gone in deep. _Dammit, dammit! Dammit!_ Clenching his teeth, he cautiously picked at it. It hurt. _Boy_ , it hurt! A short gasp of pain escaped him. “Ahhh–”

“Mykie?” called a concerned high-pitched voice.

“It's... it's alright, Sherlock,” he spluttered, “I just –” And he resolutely clenched his jaw again, pinched the free end of the blasted splinter and yanked it out with a single jerk. Tears shot into his eyes which he wiped away angrily with the back of his hand. _Stop it, Mycroft Holmes! You're not going to sit here and cry like a baby because of a_ stupid _splinter!_

“Mycroft?” his brother called again, his tone urgent but his volume low.

“Coming,” the red-haired boy replied, and licked the blood from his hand. “Hold your torch steady, will you?” And after positioning the beacon torch carefully to point it in the right direction, he crawled back towards the house and Sherlock as quickly as he could.

When he was just an arm's length away from his brother, a flash of white light blinded him. “Arrrgh! Not in the face, stupid!” he spat and instinctively shielded his eyes. Fresh blood had welled up from the small wound, and Mycroft realised to his horror that he must have smeared it across his forehead inadvertently when he had flung his hand up to protect his eyes.

Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide in alarm. “You're bleeding! Were you hurt?” He slid down and squatted next to his brother. A curious little hand reached towards the bloody streak, and blue-green eyes trailed down to Mycroft's hand.

“Splinter.” Mycroft explained and felt tears stinging in his eyes that had little to do with the pain in his hand. Why on earth was this night turning out so different from his plans?

“Shall I kiss it better?” the little boy offered and gingerly took Mycroft's left hand, having spotted the source of the blood already. Mycroft let him and sniffled a bit.

Sherlock pressed a playful peck next to the injury, making a loud kissing noise as Mummy used to do, and giggled. “See? Good as new.”

The older boy smiled diffidently. Oddly enough, the silly little gesture _did_ console him.

“And now you blow your nose,” ordered Sherlock seriously, in a tone Mycroft recognised as his own in reverse situations. “It helps.”

Mycroft did as he was told, feeling strangely comforted by the look on his brother's face. He dabbed at his eyes and then at the heel of his left hand to wipe off the blood. The bleeding seemed to have stopped.

After a moment, Sherlock tilted his head and asked, “You're still going to show me the falling stars, aren't you?”

“Sure.” Mycroft took a breath. “You'll go first, and I'll be directly behind you.” And he grabbed the torch that Sherlock had put down and shone the light cone all the way along the rope. “You see the other torch over there? And the rucksack at the chimney? That's where we go.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than Sherlock started scuttling off, confidently heading towards the beacon. Mycroft hurried after him in an awkward hobble, carrying the torch in his left hand so that he wouldn't put any weight on the small injury, trying to keep the beam straight ahead of them and ignoring the slight throbbing of pain. When they both reached the chimney without further incident, he sighed with relief. _Well, here we are._

Sherlock immediately stood and looked around, amazed. “Oh, look, Mycroft! I can see everything!”

Having switched off one of the torches and put it down, Mycroft grabbed the rucksack in the crook of his left elbow and struggled with straps and clasps in order to detach the rolled-up sleeping bag from its back. He shot a glance back over his shoulder. “Everything?” he teased.

The little boy had spread his arms as if he were to embrace the night. “Yes! Surely we can see _London_ from here!” And he swirled around, laughing with delight.

Mycroft chuckled, nearly forgetting about his hurting hand. “Be careful, Sherlock!” he warned, “mind the rope!” And he turned back to tugging one-handed at the tenacious sleeping-bag. The pain in his hand didn't make it any easier.

“And the stars! So many stars!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Just _look!_ ”

And Mycroft did, really gazing up for the first time since they'd left the house. His baby brother was right, the starry sky _was_ gorgeous. A canopy of twinkling lights, like diamond dust. Better than any star chart, the real thing.

“Amazing, isn't it?” Mycroft said. And he smiled, pleased that his friends, the stars, had done their magic and enchanted his brother.

“Oh! Oh!” Sherlock tilted his head backwards and turned this way and that. “There're more over there! Mycroft, look!” He pointed in the other direction. “And over there!” And he laughed again. “Must be _millions!_ ”

“Not quite,” replied Mycroft good-naturedly, marvelling at the view himself. “Actually, there are about six-thousand stars brighter than six magnitudes, which means they are visible to the naked eye. Assuming that they are distributed more or less evenly across the celestial sphere, there would be roughly three-thousand above the horizon at any given time.” Mycroft pointed towards where dark hills blended into the sky in the distance. “Now we obviously can't see all the way to the horizon because of the terrain,” he said gesturing widely to illustrate his words, “that reduces the number of observable stars. And we have to take into account the 'seeing', that is the unrest of the atmosphere scattering the starlight.” He glanced at Sherlock who nodded and looked vaguely in the direction he pointed. Satisfied, Mycroft smiled and continued. “Plus, there is haze and dirt in the air, which further diminishes the visibility, particularly of objects near the horizon, as their light travels a long way through various atmospheric layers...” Suddenly he thought of a more practical consideration just as he was about to draw his speech to conclusion. “On the other hand, we're both quite young, which is a bonus in terms of keen eyesight. So, even with conditions as superb as tonight and with perfectly dark-adapted eyes, I would estimate that we cannot discern more than...” Mycroft looked over to Sherlock and his breath caught.

Under the dome of brilliant stars, Sherlock was dancing. The little boy had extended his arms to the glorious spectacle above, face turned upwards, and started laughing enthusiastically, hopping and reeling as he did so.

Mycroft was stunned, mesmerised, couldn't speak, could barely breathe. His brother had probably not listened to most of his lecture but that didn't matter. Mycroft sat back on his haunches and just watched Sherlock dance beneath the stars.

His figure was a dark silhouette moving gracefully in front of the magnificent nocturnal panorama. A wispy mercurial night elf celebrating the splendour of the universe. The little whirlwind swirled and swayed his lithe body back and forth to a silent melody in his head; arms swinging, squealing with glee. Mycroft almost could sense it too, the exuberant song in Sherlock's soul, saw it in every turn and twist, heard it in the delighted sounds that were not quite words. Not even the loose rope loop around his body seemed to be able to restrain him very much. Mycroft could have watched him for hours.

“Oh, oh!” Sherlock was gasping after a stumbled pirouette, “so many stars! So beauti...” And he turned to his brother, caught in the light of the torch, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with wonder. “And you know them _all_ , Mycroft?” he asked, breathless.

Mycroft felt his own cheeks fire up with a sudden blush in view of his brother's admiration. “Er... quite a few of them, yes.”

“Whooh!” Sherlock beamed at him adoringly. “You must tell me all their names!”

Mycroft swallowed, the blush reaching his ears. “I shall, to the best of my knowledge”. The way he saw it, the most beautiful sight around here was his brother's happy face. As awesome as the starry night might be, Sherlock's sparkling eyes were even more breathtaking. _He catches the stars in his eyes and brings them down to earth,_ Mycroft thought.

Sherlock threw his arms passionately around Mycroft's neck and squeezed him tightly, but before his brother could return the hug, he was on his feet again resuming his star dance.

Mycroft let out a breath. “Careful, little bee!” he cautioned again but didn't hold him back.

He never wanted to be the one who told Sherlock to stop dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter I actually had a sound track. It's the song “Brother” by the band “Mighty Oaks”, three guys from the US, Italy and the UK, living in Berlin. Whoohoo! This song really gives me shivers.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ewf720DrJFw  
> https://www.universal-music.de/mighty-oaks/videos/brother-334788


End file.
